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“I write on assignment for Hannah,” I say, dodging the question. “She has —”
“Can I interest you in our charcuterie, Mr. Riordan?” a different woman asks, cutting me off, smoothing a white napkin over her wrist.
“Not just yet, thank you,” he answers her politely, then redirects his attention to me.
His eyes lock back on mine, his face crinkling into a smile. He has dimples that rise vertically along his cheeks, almost up to his eyes. Serious, emphatic dimples. Dimples that mean something.
“Did I mention how pleased I am that you asked me to come here?” he murmurs, his dimples creasing even further if that's possible.
I nod awkwardly, unsure what else to do. I feel my palms getting wet. My heart starts to race. Why is he making such a big deal about me asking him? Weren’t we both asked? Why am I not saying anything? Should I be saying something? Suddenly I feel like there was supposed to be an agenda for this, and I have forgotten everything on it. Is it an interview? Should I have questions?
“Still water or sparkling, Mr. Riordan?” yet another server asks. Are you kidding me with this?
I need a plan. I need to do something. What would my storybook character be doing at this point? I can’t just be sitting here, disarmed and stuttering like a terrified child.
Before I know it, I'm leaning toward him. My hand slides around to find the back support of his chair so that I'm not falling, exactly, but definitely tilting forward. It’s happening so quickly, I'm not even sure he's reciprocating. My lips find his lips, slide along them. I hear him suck in his breath, but then reali
ze I'm kissing him and he's kissing me back. His lips are soft, gentle, curious. Then firm, then firmer. His tongue darts playfully under the rim of my upper lip, and he inhales me, sucking the breath out of me.
When we finally separate, I'm breathless, dizzy, totally confused and off-kilter. But at least I made a move. I’m the boss. For now.
But I'm smiling, too. I can feel the tension in my cheeks. His eyes dance with mirth and his lips remain open as though he's about to say something.
“Was that all right?” I ask, finally finding my voice. It's not a purr, but it will have to do.
He nods, dazzling me again with that bright, beautiful smile. “More than all right. Perfect.”
“I just wanted to move past some of the more awkward formalities,” I explain shyly, but with a playful lilt in my voice so he might wonder if I do this sort of thing all the time.
“Brilliant plan,” he grins. “I did not see that coming at all.”
“So, now that we’re past all that… is it all right if I call you Emmet?”
He tips his head to the side, pulling back just a bit.
“Well, I'd sort of rather you didn't,” he confides. “I'm Dillon.”
Chapter 28
Dillon
Her expression freezes. I hear the little whoosh of breath that gets caught at the back of her throat.
“But kiss me like that again, and you can call me anything you want. Our father's name was Duke. Want to give that one a go? It’s all the same to me.”
“Oh, oh… this was a total mistake — I'm so sorry!” she begins to babble as she pulls away. Automatically I reach out and circle her delicate wrist in my fingers.
“It’s not a mistake, it's fate,” I tell her, leaning forward so she can hear me over the cute little guinea pig noises that she's making. I love this dismay she's got on her features. It is the first real expression I've seen among all the others she’s been trying out. It’s sort of nice to watch the façade crumble.
“I'm not supposed to be with you!” she yelps.
“Fate would seem to have other ideas.”
She keeps trying to pull back, but it takes almost no effort to keep her here. I'm not even squeezing or anything, I promise. She's just not strong enough to break away. I'm not sure she's really even trying very hard.
“Mr. Riordan? Your Yamazakis. Neat,” the waiter says, politely ignoring Bella’s escape attempt as he slides the glasses onto the table.
“You’re in for a treat,” I confide. “If you’re accustomed to American whiskeys, I think you’ll find this much more complex, more like a scotch. Tell me what you think.”
